


Hetalia! One-Shots

by Moonfrog



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Prepare your feels, romano is the len kagamine of hetalia, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonfrog/pseuds/Moonfrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the title says it all.</p><p>This is one of those times.</p><p>(Requests are accepted by the way~)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hero

America was called a hero.

Names are not always true.

"Ah, America, what are you doing here? You do know that this is a war council, right? For nations who are at war with the Axis powers."

The young nation smiled broadly at the four faces watching him within the small meeting room, optimism shining clear in his eyes. He'd only come to this place because of a recent attack from Japan that he'd rather not discuss. Even if he was still bothered by it (which he should be- it wasn't too long ago), he didn't seem to care. He'd remained as cheerful- if not more -as usual. However, there was something that had changed within the American. It wasn't that some part of him had gone- on the contrary, it was as if some part of him had... enlarged.

"Oh, so I am in the right place then!"

"Does that mean you're joining us, Amerique?" France questioned, looking slightly unsure.

"Yep!"

"But we've been asking you to join us since this war first started! Why on earth are you joining us now?"

"A simple thank you would be fine, you guys."

Having successfully brushed off the question, America began talking.

"Alright, everyone listen to me! We've got to focus on victory in Europe because our biggest threat is from the Germans. However, because of this, we'll start out in Italy, and I'll lead, of course."

So, America rambled on for a while, and everyone else seemed to hold on to every word he said. Almost everyone. It was England who had noticed something odd. America constantly said that he'd be the hero and he'd lead them with his "totally awesome plan" or whatever. Calling himself a hero was a normal thing for the young nation, but never so excessively.

"America, you speak of this plan you're going to lead us through. How exactly are you going to do that?"

"Well, if you'd all listen to me, that's how."

"Oh, sod off! How do you expect to lead if you don't even know what the devil you're doing!

"I know exactly what I'm doing, you just-"

"Just shut it! How dare you even open your mouth when you've not even a single idea in that thick skull of yours? You call yourself a hero, don't you? Are not heroes supposed to stand up for those who can not stand up for themselves? News flash, America, there are millions of innocent civilians being murdered as we speak, and they can do nothing about it! You just say these things because you want all eyes to be on you, cause that's just how you like, isn't it? Hell, the only reason you're up and functioning correctly is because of all the attention you're getting!"

That young nation's smile had disappeared, leaving behind only an expression that was unreadable. England had chosen the exact words to make him feel horrid, and he knew that. The poison in his normally calm voice made that clear.

"What... are you trying to say?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're no hero; you're an attention whore!"

If England had said anything else, America did not hear it. Left vulnerable from Japan's attack, he was now a hastily stacked tower of emotions, just waiting to blow over and fall to the ground. England's words were just enough to do the job. As a result, America had become lost- lost within himself.

Heroes... are supposed to be loved... aren't they? Supposed to be... praised, doted upon. Supposed to be famous, and wanted.

His mind raced backwards, back to a time when this man called England was so fondly referred to as "daddy." Looking back on it now, it was as if he were a prize to be won. But he was wanted. The one who got him was proud of him, so it was fine. He'd seen other children, though, with mothers and fathers, who praised their children as well, but for different, far simpler reasons. He didn't like it, but he was still praised, so it was fine.

His mind raced ahead to a time where a child named Davie was referred to as a friend. He wanted a flower, and getting that flower was a kind thing to do, and heroes were kind, right? He found them, heaps of them. Davie didn't say anything. America didn't like it, but others were happy for him, so it was fine.

Forward, to a time where both he and England seemed to share a deep hatred for one another. Was he no longer loved? He hated it, but France still loved him, so it was fine.

Forward, to a month prior to now, as he felt the undying pain of his civilians as Pearl Harbor went down, and this "hero" could do nothing about it. That was most definitely not okay.

Forward once again, to just a week ago, as he decided to join the Allies, he stood at his first president's grave, reduced to an emotional wreck, trying desperately to hold himself together while he cried out these five words:

 

"Are you proud of me?"

 

Suddenly, his mind returned to the present. Glancing at the clock, he noticed that this rush of memories had only lasted for a second. However, the stinging feeling in his eyes told that his pain was worth far more.

The room was silent, the tensity in the air almost tangible.

"You know what, England?

The young nation smiled, tears threatening to spill from eyes the color of the sky.

"You may be right."

America was called a hero.

Names are not always true.


	2. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's missing from this picture... Just don't know what.

There was something wrong. There was always something wrong. The other nations either didn't notice or didn't care, but there was always something off. No one else knew that, but Veneziano did.

However, just like the others, he had no idea what it was.

"Do you ever just feel like something's missing? You know, like something's just not right? Cause I'm pretty sure that's what's going on right now. Something's different. I don't like it."

The young man, known as Veneziano or Italy spoke softly to his cat that he'd fondly referred to as Pookie. He'd claimed before that she could understand every word he said, but currently, the only thing she was doing in response was rolling onto her back for tummy rubs from the Italian, a request to which he kindly obliged.

"I just don't know. Well, what do you think?"

The cat simply meowed, licked its paw, and purred at Veneziano's touch.

"Just continue on normally, huh? I see. Thanks, Pookie! What would I ever do without you?"

Smiling, he gently removed the cat from his lap and placed her onto the floor.

Checking his calendar and seeing that the world conference would be in his country today, he decided (of course, it wasn't exactly a decision) that his outfit would be his uniform. Saying his goodbyes to the cat sprawled out on the floor, he left for what he anticipated to be another chaotic and mostly unsuccessful conference.

And of course, he was right.

America rambled on as usual about being the hero, England and France were arguing, Germany had to constantly shout at everyone to shut up, and everyone else was either fighting or not paying attention to anything. Veneziano was the latter.

Originally, he had hoped that this meeting would help take his mind off of his internal conflicts, but currently, the outlook wasn't so great. He simply rested his head on the table and sighed, hoping that something or someone would help him. However, when he looked up, all he saw was an empty chair next to him, which made his stomach turn over, and he didn't know why.

Seeing the distressed Italian, the Spaniard in the seat on the other side of him gently ran a hand through his hair and smiled.

"What has you so stressed, my friend?"

For a second, Veneziano considered simply not speaking to him, but that would only leave him alone with his thoughts, which would be worse.

"Spain... is there someone not here today?"

"Hm? No, not that I can think of. Why do you ask?"

"Has that chair always been empty?" Veneziano queried, ignoring the last question.

"As far as I can remember, yes. What's bothering you so much?"

He sighed, his reply barely audible. "Nothing, nevermind...."

"Are you sure? Because it really looks like-"

"I said it's nothing, alright? So just leave me alone, you bastard!"

Spain was shocked at Veneziano's snappish attitude that replaced his normally kind demeanor. It was strange coming out of him, but almost familiar for some reason. Although, it was quickly replaced with a look of remorse.

"I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean that, I just... I really don't want to talk about it anymore. E-excuse me!"

Without giving the other a chance to respond, he snuck out of the meeting room, into the hallway, and into some random room that happened to be a closet. He closed the door, locked it, and slid down against the door, covering his face with his hands. What was wrong with him? He would never call Spain a name like that! So, why did he?

There was some part of him that was angry at Spain. Hated him, to be exact. This part felt that he should know exactly what it was that disturbed Veneziano, and the fact that he didn't made him utterly furious. He should've known. He was the closest to the issue, after all! He wanted to slap him, yell at him, swear at him, anything!

Problem was, he still didn't know why.

No matter how hard Veneziano tried to push it all away into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, he couldn't, and these poisonous thoughts followed him throughout the meeting and all the way home.

Opening the door and voicing his hellos, he didn't find his cat laid out near the door like usual, but he was only somewhat concerned. His thoughts were so occupied that he could hardly register anything that was going on around him. And it was only getting worse. He stumbled into his living room, only to find his cat, along with a box toppled over, its contents spilled.

"Oh, Pookie! How many times have I told you not to play with my stuff!"

She seemed sorry, but Veneziano only shook his head at her and bent down to clean up her mess. Looking down, he noticed that it was a box of old photos from who knows how long ago. Being a very sentimental person and wanting something else to take over his thoughts, he decided to sit down and look through them. He sighed in delight as he reminisced over them.

Even so, those feeling of hatred and emptiness grew ever more at certain pictures. Ones that contained a man he didn't know. He looked similar to Veneziano, only tanner, with green eyes, and had a more irritated look. He was so familiar, so much that it physically pained him that he couldn't place a name to that face.

He hated it.

Fresh tears streamed down his face as he looked at them. It was almost torture to see this person, but he so desperately wanted a name. He craved to know everything about him.

However, seeing this person also made Veneziano... happy, in some way. He remembered that he was important, and that he loved him. As if he were... family. It seemed that this mysterious man thought the same.

In every single picture, he looked a little happier when they were with each other.

And Veneziano could smile through his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why the heck are these so apparently short yet it takes me twenty years to write them


End file.
